Hot Blood: The Fourth Spider Shepherd Thriller (A Dan Shepherd Mystery) Read online

  Johnny tried to roll over but hands grabbed him. One of the men sat on his legs. Another pinned his left arm to the ground. A hand grabbed his hair and yanked his head back. All he could hear was the chanting of the men who were going to kill him. He tried to blank out their voices. He didn’t want to die hearing their voices. Hearing them praising their God. The Lord’s Prayer whirled faster and faster through his mind. Thy kingdom come, thy will be done …

  The knife sliced through Johnny’s throat. There was surprisingly little pain, just a burning sensation. Then he felt blood gush down his neck and heard a roar of triumph from Kamil. He couldn’t feel his body, he realised. Everything had gone numb. The knife flashed in front of his eyes and he felt it hack through his windpipe and then everything went black.

  The Jaguar pulled up in front of the warehouse. There were two men in the car. The driver was Ian Corben, in his mid-thirties and wearing a sheepskin jacket. He switched off the engine, took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. ‘Into the lion’s den,’ he muttered.

  His companion was a few years older and several kilos heavier. Conor O’Sullivan had left Ireland as a teenager and had lost most of his Galway accent, but he had the black hair, blue eyes and easy charm of a young Pierce Brosnan. His movie-star features were marred only by a jagged scar under his chin. ‘Relax,’ he said.

  ‘We don’t know them. They might—’

  ‘They came through for Mickey Burgess,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘It’ll be fine. Pop the boot.’ He climbed out of the Jaguar and adjusted the cuffs of his cashmere overcoat. The boot clicked open and he took out a Manchester United holdall. The two men stood looking at the metal-clad warehouse, with identical buildings, ‘To Let’ signs above the entrances, at either side.

  ‘If it’s a trap, we’re fucked,’ said Corben.

  O’Sullivan smiled easily. ‘It’s a business transaction,’ he said. ‘Pure and simple.’

  ‘Yeah, but we’re walking in with a bagful of cash and no back-up.’

  ‘They insisted. Two of us and two of them.’

  ‘Yeah, well, we should be the ones setting the rules.’

  O’Sullivan thrust the bag at Corben. ‘Here, carry this. You’re supposed to be the muscle.’

  ‘Second-in-command is how I remember the job description.’

  ‘I don’t recall advertising the position,’ said O’Sullivan. He glanced at his watch. ‘Come on, we’re late.’

  They walked towards the metal doors of the warehouse’s loading bay. O’Sullivan whistled softly. He didn’t want to startle anyone inside. He eased himself through the gap between the doors. Corben followed.

  Two men were waiting for them, in bomber jackets and jeans. The older one, a heavy-set man in his fifties, was wearing bright yellow Timberland boots; the younger, slightly taller man had on scruffy training shoes and was holding a paddle-shaped black object in his left hand. O’Sullivan knew their names – Graham May and Paul Lomas – but he didn’t know which was which. He scanned his surroundings. There were no obvious hiding-places. The warehouse was empty, except for three metal tables against one wall. He relaxed a little.

  Corben stood behind him, swinging the holdall. O’Sullivan flashed his companion a quick smile.

  ‘Which one of you is O’Sullivan?’ asked the man in the Timberlands. He had an abrasive Scottish accent.

  O’Sullivan raised a hand. ‘That would be me. Conor to my friends.’

  ‘I’m Paul,’ said the man. He nodded at his younger companion. ‘He’s Graham.’

  ‘How are you doing?’ said May, although from his tone it was clear that he didn’t care. He gestured at the bag. ‘Is that the cash?’

  ‘No it’s a Sherman tank,’ sneered Corben.

  ‘Ian, be nice,’ warned O’Sullivan.

  Corben held up the bag. ‘It’s the cash,’ he said. ‘Where are the guns?’

  ‘Over there,’ said May, gesturing at the tables, on which five metal suitcases were lined up.

  O’Sullivan headed towards them.

  ‘Whoa, hoss,’ said Lomas. ‘First things first.’ He nodded at Corben. ‘Drop the bag, yeah?’

  ‘What?’ said Corben, frowning.

  ‘You heard him,’ said May. ‘We need to make a few checks first.’ He gestured at the paddle he was holding. ‘We want to make sure you’re not carrying.’

  O’Sullivan realised that the paddle was a metal detector, the sort used to screen passengers at airports. Lomas stood with arms folded, staring stonily at Corben.

  May stepped forward and ran the metal detector down O’Sullivan’s coat. It beeped. May raised an eyebrow and O’Sullivan put a hand into his pocket.

  ‘Slowly,’ warned May.

  O’Sullivan’s hand reappeared with a set of car keys. ‘What are you looking for?’ he asked.

  ‘What do you think?’ snarled Lomas.

  O’Sullivan grinned and slipped his keys back into his coat. ‘I think you’re looking for a gun,’ he said. ‘But seeing I’m here to buy guns, that wouldn’t make any sense, would it?’

  ‘It wouldn’t be the first time someone’s tried to rip me off,’ said May. He ran the detector over the back of O’Sullivan’s overcoat.

  ‘Yeah, but rip you off for what?’ asked O’Sullivan. ‘I’ve got the cash. You’ve got the guns. But if I already had a gun, why would I steal one from you? You see what I’m saying?’

  ‘I see what you’re saying,’ said May.

  ‘If anyone’s in danger of being ripped off it’s me.’

  ‘I got it the first time. But this is the way it’s going to be done, so just shut the fuck up.’

  ‘Plus, this gizmo picks up wires,’ said Lomas.

  O’Sullivan pointed a finger at Lomas. ‘You start calling me a grass and I’m out of here,’ he said. ‘I came to do business, not to be slagged off.’

  ‘Will you two stop bickering?’ said May. He stepped back. ‘You’re clean.’

  ‘I know I’m clean,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘I didn’t need you to tell me.’

  May went to Corben, whose eyes hardened. ‘This is a liberty,’ he said.

  ‘Let them play their little games, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

  ‘It’s a fucking liberty,’ said Corben. ‘We came here to do business, didn’t we? It’s like you said, they’ve got the fucking guns and we’ve got the money. We’re the ones taking the risk here.’

  May lowered the metal detector. ‘I’m starting to get a bad feeling about this,’ he said.

  ‘Yeah,’ said Corben, narrowing his eyes. ‘You and me both.’ He looked across at O’Sullivan. ‘Let’s knock this on the head.’

  ‘Ian …’

  ‘I mean it. This is all shit.’

  ‘Got something to hide, have you?’ said Lomas.

  ‘Why don’t we run that thing over you two first?’ said Corben. ‘See what you’ve got to hide.’

  ‘You’re the visitors,’ said Lomas.

  ‘Fuck you,’ spat Corben.

  ‘Yeah? Well, fuck you, too.’

  Corben stepped towards Lomas, his right hand bunching into a fist. Lomas shuffled backwards, fumbling inside his jacket. He pulled out an automatic and pointed it at Corben’s face.

  ‘Easy, easy!’ shouted O’Sullivan.

  Corben glared at Lomas, his fist pulled back. ‘I knew this was a set-up.’

  ‘You started it,’ said Lomas.

  ‘Will you both just fucking relax?’ said May. ‘We’re not in the bloody playground here.’

  ‘It’s too late for that,’ said Lomas, still staring at Corben. ‘He’s not right.’

  ‘I’m not right?’ spat Corben. ‘You’re the one who pulled a gun.’

  O’Sullivan had his hands up, showing his palms. ‘Can we all calm down here?’ he said.

  ‘I’m calm,’ said Lomas. ‘I just want to know what he’s got to hide.’

  ‘Put the gun down, Paul,’ said May.

  ‘Not until I’m sure he’s kosher,’ said Lomas. ‘Check him. And the ba
g.’

  ‘This is bullshit,’ said Corben.

  ‘Just go with the flow, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

  Corben glared at Lomas, took out his mobile phone and car keys, and slowly raised his arms. May ran the metal detector up and down his back and legs, then checked the front of his body. It made no sound.

  ‘Satisfied?’ asked Corben.

  ‘No hard feelings?’ said May.

  Corben lowered his hands. ‘I’ll decide when there are no hard feelings,’ he said.

  ‘The bag,’ said Lomas, gesturing with the gun. ‘Check the bag.’

  May did as he was told, and again the metal detector made no sound. Lomas put away the gun.

  ‘I’m sorry if we got off on the wrong foot,’ said May. He patted O’Sullivan on the back. ‘Situation like this, it’s normal for jitters.’

  ‘The deal was that we all came unarmed,’ said O’Sullivan, staring pointedly at Lomas.

  ‘Guns in the cases, guns in a holster, they’re all part of the inventory,’ said May.

  ‘He pulled a gun on us,’ said O’Sullivan.

  ‘Like I said, jitters. Come on, let me show you what we’ve got.’

  May walked over to the tables with O’Sullivan. Lomas and Corben followed, eyeing each other warily. May opened one of the metal cases. Inside six revolvers nestled in yellow foam rubber. May picked up a short-barrelled weapon and held it out to O’Sullivan, butt first. ‘Spanish-made Astra .357 Magnum. The foresight has been smoothed down to minimise snagging so it’s a perfect concealed weapon.’

  ‘No safety,’ said O’Sullivan.

  ‘It’s got a long double-action pull,’ said May. ‘You’d have to be a right twat to fire it accidentally.’

  ‘I prefer Smith & Wesson,’ said O’Sullivan.

  ‘Your call,’ said May, taking back the Astra. He put it back in its slot in the foam rubber, and handed O’Sullivan a second revolver. ‘A J Frame .38 special,’ he said. ‘Five rounds in the cylinder. The Astra takes six.’

  ‘This is fine,’ said O’Sullivan, flicking out the cylinder and peering down the barrel. He put the gun on the table and pointed at another. ‘That’s an L Frame, right? A .357 Magnum?’

  ‘Sure is,’ said May, removing the gun and giving it to him. ‘Same action as the J Frame but the cylinder takes six. It’s a nice gun, but I have to say I prefer the Astra.’

  ‘How much for the two?’ O’Sullivan sniffed the barrel of the Smith & Wesson L Frame.

  ‘Nine hundred.’

  ‘This one’s been fired,’ said O’Sullivan.

  ‘Test firing, that’s all. It’s never been fired in anger.’

  ‘Nine is steep.’ O’Sullivan gave both of the Smith & Wessons to Corben, who broke them down quickly and efficiently.

  ‘They’re quality guns,’ said May.

  ‘Nine is still steep.’

  ‘Take it or leave it,’ said May.

  O’Sullivan sighed. ‘Okay. Nine it is. Rounds?’

  Corben reassembled the two weapons as fast as he’d stripped them down.

  ‘I’ll throw in a box of each,’ said May. ‘If you need more they’ll be fifty apiece.’

  ‘Two boxes of each.’

  May smiled. ‘Deal,’ he said. He opened a second metal case to reveal four Glock pistols. ‘Automatics?’

  Corben shook his head. ‘They spit casings all over the place. And they jam.’

  ‘Guns don’t jam,’ said May. ‘Crap ammunition jams. Used properly, a Glock’s as reliable as any revolver.’

  ‘Thanks, but no thanks,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘We’re happy with the revolvers.’

  May closed the lid of the case. He opened a third. There was only one weapon inside, a compact shotgun with a pistol grip at the trigger and a second pistol grip under the front of the barrel. ‘You wanted a sawn-off, but I thought you might appreciate this.’

  O’Sullivan picked up the shotgun. ‘Nice.’

  ‘It’s a Franchi PA3,’ said May. ‘The forward pistol grip helps with the pump-action. Special forces use it to blow the hinges off doors for rapid entry. It’s a twelve gauge, overall length 470mm so it’s easy to conceal. It’s only got a three-round capacity but in my experience you only have to fire it once.’

  O’Sullivan sighted down the barrel, then gave the weapon to Corben. ‘Ammunition?’

  ‘As much as you want.’

  ‘A couple of dozen will see me right,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘Price?’

  ‘Twelve for the gun. I’ll throw in the shells.’

  ‘Twelve hundred quid?’ said Corben. ‘Do me a favour.’

  ‘Who am I talking to here?’ May asked O’Sullivan. ‘The organ-grinder or the monkey?’

  O’Sullivan’s smile hardened. ‘He’s my partner,’ he said, ‘and he knows about guns.’

  ‘It’s brand new,’ said May. ‘Return it unfired and I’ll pay you nine. So twelve is cheap.’

  Corben shook his head. ‘It’s a shotgun, fancy pistol grips or not. A grand. Give us eight if we don’t make it go bang.’

  May nodded. ‘Okay,’ he said. ‘But unfired means unfired. Shots in the air count.’

  O’Sullivan flashed May a tight smile. ‘We got it the first time,’ he said. ‘What about the heavy artillery?’

  May pulled up the lids of the final two cases. Each contained two submachine-pistols.

  Corben whistled softly. ‘Lovely jubbly,’ he said.

  May pulled one out and gave it to O’Sullivan. ‘The gang-banger’s favourite,’ he said. ‘The MAC-10. Thirty rounds in the magazine and you can let the lot go faster than you can say “drive-by”.’

  ‘Sweet,’ said O’Sullivan. He passed it to Corben. ‘Have you got a silencer?’

  ‘What do you need one for?’

  ‘To keep the sodding noise down – what do you think I need it for?’

  ‘I can get you one.’

  ‘Two,’ said O’Sullivan, picking up the second Ingram.

  ‘Fifteen hundred apiece,’ said May. He tapped the sub machine-guns in the second case. ‘The Stars are a bit cheaper. Same calibre, same size magazine, a little bit heavier, rate of fire is slower but you can still let rip faster than you can blink.’

  ‘You keep pushing the Spanish gear, don’t you?’ said Corben. ‘You pick up a job lot?’

  ‘Spanish armed forces have been using them since 1985,’ said May. ‘Gang-bangers and Hollywood movie producers are the only ones who use the Ingram.’

  ‘We’ll take the Ingrams,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘And two silencers.’

  ‘You planning on going to war?’ asked May.

  O’Sullivan ignored the question. He ran his eyes over the guns he’d selected. ‘Four thousand nine hundred, right?’

  ‘Let’s call it a round five grand,’ said May. ‘I’ll give you fifty per cent on the Ingrams if you bring them back unfired.’

  O’Sullivan grinned. ‘They’ll be fired,’ he said.

  ‘I don’t get you, Conor,’ said May. ‘You fret about the Glocks because they eject their rounds, but the Ingrams spit them all over the place.’

  ‘Horses for courses,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘The shorts are for our next job, the Ingrams are for payback that’s been brewing for some time. Anyway, what do you care?’

  ‘Just curious,’ said May.

  ‘Yeah, well, you know what curiosity did to the cat,’ said O’Sullivan. ‘And it’s four thousand nine hundred.’

  ‘If you want the cases, it’s five grand,’ said May.

  O’Sullivan shook his head sadly. ‘You’re a cheap bastard.’

  ‘It’s a business. I’ve got overheads and expenses. Do you want the cases or not?’

  ‘Yeah, I want the cases.’

  ‘Good choice,’ said May. He packed the weapons O’Sullivan had chosen and clicked the cases shut. ‘Now, if we could get the cash sorted …’

  O’Sullivan nodded at Corben. Corben retrieved the Manchester United holdall, hefted it on to one of the tables and unzipped it. He too
k out five bundles of fifty-pound notes. Lomas picked up one and flicked through the notes slowly. He nodded at May.

  May grinned and held out his hand. ‘Nice doing business with you, Conor,’ he said.

  ‘Mutual,’ said O’Sullivan. The two men shook hands.

  Lomas and Corben looked at each other with undisguised dislike.

  ‘Guess they’re not going to kiss and make up,’ said May.

  ‘Guess not,’ said O’Sullivan. He picked up the case containing the shotgun with his right hand and the holdall with the left, then motioned for Corben to carry the rest. The two men walked towards the door.

  ‘If you need anything else, you’ve got my number,’ May called after them.

  ‘Yeah, we’ve got your number,’ muttered Corben.

  ‘Be nice, Ian,’ said O’Sullivan.

  They walked out into the open air. Corben put down his cases and used the remote to open the boot. They loaded the cases, then climbed into the car. O’Sullivan grinned. ‘That went well,’ he said.

  The two men watched the Jaguar drive away. ‘That went well,’ said the Scotsman.

  ‘Until you pulled a gun on them,’ said his companion. ‘What the hell was that about?’

  ‘He was talking about using the metal detector on us. Shit would well and truly have hit the fan if he had done. Anyway, it worked out all right in the end, didn’t it?’

  The Jaguar pulled out of the industrial estate and accelerated towards the nearby motorway. The two men walked back into the warehouse. They took off their jackets and tossed them on to the tables.

  They heard footsteps at the door and turned to see Charlotte Button walking confidently towards them, brushing a lock of dark chestnut hair behind her ear to reveal a moulded plastic earpiece. ‘Well done, guys,’ she said. She was wearing a belted fawn raincoat and her high heels clicked on the concrete floor.

  An Asian man in his late twenties had followed her. Amar Singh was Button’s technical specialist. He was carrying a briefcase.

  ‘Sorry about Razor’s improvisation, but there was method in his madness,’ said Dan Shepherd. He unbuttoned his denim shirt to reveal a microphone taped to his shaved chest.